


Bodies (In the Way We Feel)

by misura



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: First Time, M/M, Pre-Canon, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-12
Updated: 2014-07-12
Packaged: 2018-02-08 12:31:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1941189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misura/pseuds/misura
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Captain gave me the day off." Porthos grunted. "Said you needed a nurse more than he needed a Musketeer."</p>
<p>"Are you sure that was <i>his</i> side of the argument, rather than yours?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bodies (In the Way We Feel)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lynndyre](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lynndyre/gifts).



Athos woke up feeling that, if he were to try to get up, put on some clothes and walk out the door pretending to be a normal, fully functional human being, he was likely to fall flat on his face before he'd so much as gotten his shirt on.

Which was to say: the same as usual.

Which was to say: best to get on with this dreary business of not-dying.

 

"You look ... not good," Aramis said. Porthos's expression put it slightly less delicate.

"I'm fine," Athos said, which was not, strictly speaking true. "It's just a hangover. I can handle it."

"Usually by sticking your head down a bucket of ice water," Porthos said. "Fun."

"You've got your way of handling hangovers, and I've got mine." Athos wasn't actually sure what Porthos's method to deal with hangovers consisted of. He suspected it consisted of simply getting up and on with things, which was a rather depressing idea, almost bad enough to make him want to stick his head down a bucket of ice water. _Fun, indeed._

"His way actually works," Aramis said. "Yours, I'm not so sure about."

"I'm fine," Athos repeated. He felt hot, which was perfectly normal: it was Summer. A bit cold, too, but then, it was morning. Mornings got chilly sometimes.

His head hurt, which was a typical symptom of a hangover. Some sore muscles, which, likewise.

"Fine," he said, again, to make this absolutely clear. "I am absolutely, entirely fine."

"Yeah," Porthos said. His voice had an odd, floating quality to it, as if he were standing over Athos instead of in front of him. "That why you're lying on the ground? 'cause you're absolutely fine?"

That would explain the cold, then: not the chill of an early morning, but the cobble stones of the courtyard. As to his legs apparently having decided to quit working, well -

"Congratulations. You were right. I was wrong."

"Ah," Porthos said. "Sweet, sweet words. Could you say them again, do you think?"

"Don't be an arse," Athos said. "And don't get me to a doctor. I don't like doctors."

"How 'bout you settle for one out of those two?" Porthos asked.

 

_This is normal. Well, no, not quite normal, but I am ill. I am not under any obligation to get up. I have been given sick leave._

"Athos?" Porthos leaned in, much, much too close.

"What are you doing here? Is it night?" It had to be; Treville would never give one of his Musketeers time off for something as frivolous as taking care of a sick friend who wasn't in any danger of dying.

He must have dozed off, then, slept the day away. It'd be good for him, probably, although the sensible thing to do now would be to eat something, and drink some water. Make sure his body kept its strength.

"It's ten," Porthos said. "In the morning."

"Oh." No healthily slept away missing day, then.

"How do you feel?"

Athos considered. He couldn't recall a doctor, which probably meant Porthos hadn't gotten one. Which definitely meant Porthos was going to be an arse, but then, he usually was. It was one of Porthos's many loveable qualities. "Poorly," he said. "And ... confused. Why are you here?"

"Captain gave me the day off." Porthos grunted. "Said you needed a nurse more than he needed a Musketeer."

"Are you sure that was _his_ side of the argument, rather than yours?"

"This place is a mess," Porthos said, which probably meant that Athos was right.

It was all very well-intended and entirely superfluous. He probably just had a slight cold or something; hardly life-threatening, and nothing some rest, food and liquids wouldn't cure.

"Thank you," Athos said.

"Wasn't a compliment," Porthos said. "All these empty bottles - I mean, damn. I thought _I_ knew how to drink."

"Only until I pass out." Of course, passing out only stopped the memories. It didn't stop him from dreaming - or from waking up, eventually. "There's a trick to it."

"I'm sure there is. Now, try and get some sleep, there's a good little patient."

"I'm not," Athos said. "A good little patient."

"Pretend," Porthos suggested. " 'course, I can also just punch you. See how _you_ like it."

"You'd punch a sick friend?"

"You punched an injured one," Porthos pointed out. "What's the difference?"

"I punched you because it was the sensible, practical thing to do." Also, much, much safer for Aramis, whose needlework was quite good, provided his patient wasn't constantly moving or trying to hit him. "It's completely different."

"Well, you would say that, wouldn't you?"

 

He always dreamt of the good days. The happy days.

To be fair, they outnumbered the bad ones on a ratio of about two-hundred-and-sixteen to one, but then, to be just, they had all been lies. Their memory should taste bitter.

If he'd go to sleep one night and not wake up, he thought he might very well have died a very happy man, which meant he'd probably die on a battlefield somewhere, or a back-alley. Stomach-shot, and no friends around to hurry things along.

_I'm awake._ Always an unwelcome realization.

_I'm awake, and I'm not alone._ He felt his chest tighten - it couldn't possibly be _her_ , of course; he wouldn't even _want_ it to be her; for God's sake, he'd ordered her hanged; he didn't even deserve to get her back if she'd somehow survived, which he hoped to God she hadn't, and it wasn't possible, anyway; people didn't just get hanged and walked away; they -

Someone started snoring. Loudly. _Porthos. It's Porthos._

Kicking him was impossible; pushing him off seemed entirely justified, but slightly unkind.

"You're snoring," Athos said. His voice sounded hoarse. "It's keeping me awake. In fact, I think your snoring's probably what woke me up in the first place. Kindly stop."

Porthos merrily snored on. He was big and heavy, impossible to mistake for a woman, even in the dark.

"I didn't ask for this," Athos said. He believed there was a God. He was not a heathen, after all.

Athos's God had always been a bit of a bastard, though. Not so much with the mercy and the kindness, but very free with the smiting and the punishing and the eternal damnation. Especially that last one.

"I don't deserve this," Athos told whatever divine power was out there, responsible for this situation.

"Oi," Porthos said. "Some people're trying to sleep here."

"I am feeling quite well, thank you. Much improved."

"Great. I'm very happy for you."

"I do feel I might like a drink of water."

"Go and get it yourself."

_Well. Thank you, Captain Treville, for providing me with such a kind and conscientious nurse._

"You're on top of me. And, might I add, rather heavy."

"Pure muscle," Porthos said.

_I know. I've seen your body._ "Indubitably. Still."

"You serious about that drink of water? I could go and - "

"No. Just ... don't start snoring again. It's very vexing."

"Pot calling the kettle." Porthos snorted.

"This room does have a floor," Athos said. "It's not _that_ uncomfortable." He'd spent plenty of nights on it himself, before he'd learned how to tell the difference between being about to pass out and merely feeling that taking another drink might kill him; the two states were much alike, but what came after, less so.

"You go and sleep on it, then. Go on, I ain't stopping you."

_Aside from the part where you're still on top of me._ Athos breathed in, and out again. His head felt wonderfully clear. Any moment now, something bad would happen, some memory would come popping up - of Thomas, maybe, who was never there in either his memories or his dreams. The one everyone'd had such high expectations of, such high hopes for.

_The one I never really liked._ But one ought not to speak ill of the dead. He'd given Thomas justice, avenged his murder. That would have to be enough. _Please, God. Let that be enough._

"Thought so," Porthos said. "What do you do when you've got a woman over, anyway?"

"I don't," Athos said. "Have women over. Ever."

"Right." Porthos shifted his weight. "Women. Who needs 'em, anyway? Eh?"

_I only ever needed one. One woman._ "Quite."

Porthos exhaled. Athos imagined feeling the air travel over his skin. Imagined actually feeling the weight of Porthos's body on his own.

It would be a strange sensation, he thought, but not unpleasant. Porthos had never betrayed him, or lied to him, or deceived him. He probably never would, either.

There was no blind love here, no grand passion. _He is my friend._

_God only knows why._

"Wouldn't you be more comfortable _under_ the blankets instead of on top of them?"

"You _sure_ you're feeling better? Only, I don't want to get sick, too." Porthos's weight had all but disappeared; he'd gotten up, then. Probably a bit sore, having fallen asleep in a rather uncomfortable position.

"I'm sure," Athos said, but he shivered as Porthos slid in bed next to him - it _did_ feel strange, to let anyone get this close to him again.

"Bit chilly tonight, isn't it?"

In boarding houses, people shared beds with complete strangers. Presumably, they slept perfectly fine, regardless of knowing nothing at all about the person lying next to them.

_I know exactly who's lying next to me._

"A bit," Athos said. "Hence, the blankets."

"I mean, it's not nerves, is it? Letting the piece of gutter trash from the Court of Miracles get into bed with you. I mean, some people might - "

"Stop," Athos said. He felt hot, flushed all over. It took him a few seconds to realize it was rage. "Nobody worth talking to would say such a thing. And nobody worth knowing would even think it."

"Color of my face doesn't help, either," Porthos said, and then, by way of a complete non sequitur, "Sorry."

"You have a beautiful face. Don't let anyone tell you different."

"It _is_ different," Porthos said. " _I'm_ different."

"That's not always a bad thing."

"I know that, and you know that, and that makes precisely two of us."

_Aramis,_ Athos thought. _Captain Treville. Jerome. Marsac._ It would never be enough, of course. "It doesn't help when you cheat at cards," he said.

"I'm good at cheating at cards," Porthos said. "And I only do it when I need the money. Or when the other guy's cheating, too."

"Or when he's a Red Guard."

"Yeah, well, that one's a gimme, isn't it?"

Athos sighed. "Your morals do occasionally leave something to be desired."

"What, more deviousness?" Porthos chuckled.

_If I fall asleep now, will I just see her again?_ "I don't seem to be feeling particularly sleep anymore. Possibly, it's because I spent most of my day in bed."

"Better than spending it falling flat on your face while insisting that you're right as rain."

"All right," Athos said. "So what's your excuse?"

"Your voice is annoying," Porthos said. "Keeps me awake."

"I was serious. Or, well, mostly serious." _You don't lie awake at night, thinking about the injustice of the world, in considering you a second-rate citizen because of the color of your skin. It's not in your nature._ Porthos was a survivor, but much more than that he was, impossibly, a cheerful optimist.

"Dark night, small bed, hot body next to me. Don't take much to figure that one out, does it?"

As easy as that. To him, perhaps it was - but no, Athos told himself, that was nonsense. Porthos didn't go around crawling into bed with other men any more than Athos did; if he had, someone, somewhere would have talked.

This was simply Porthos being Porthos.

_I could love him,_ Athos thought, and then, _no, I already do. Love is not physical. It doesn't need to be. It can be just this._ Not that he was entirely clear right now, on what 'this' was.

"Sorry, too much honesty?" Porthos asked.

"That's the second time you've apologized to me tonight," Athos said. "I did mention I was feeling better, didn't I? Not at death's door or anything."

"If you were, you can bet your arse I'd be dragging you right back. Kicking and screaming, if I had to."

"I don't think I will be betting my arse any time soon," Athos said. "I might need it myself."

"Smart," Porthos said.

"I have my moments." _Though this isn't one of them, I think._ He reached out, forced his hand to keep going until it touched skin. With _her_ , everything had been easy. _She made it easy,_ but that wasn't fair, either; it wasn't as if Porthos was making this difficult.

"You haven't got a bloody idea what you're doing, do you?"

"I believe I have a general idea," Athos said. "More or less. But, of course, I wouldn't want to presume."

"Oh, no. By all means. Presume away," Porthos said, and Athos thought _fine, so maybe he_ is _making this difficult. A little._

"If - _if_ I admit that you were right and that I am, as of this moment, utterly and entirely lost ... "

"Oh, I'd be happy to give you a hands-on demonstration," Porthos said. "Bit of light might help, though. Always nice to be able to see a fellow's face, make sure everyone's happy."

"Might I point out that this is a lot of effort simply to get me out of bed?" Athos said, getting up. His feet felt about for bottles - shards, possible. Any spilled wine from the night before would have dried by now, another stain on his floor.

It took him perhaps twenty seconds to locate a candle, and almost two minutes to find the means to light it.

Hearing Porthos snoring as he came back ought not to have come as any kind of surprise, really.

Porthos saying, with his eyes still closed, "You had a change of mind, you can just sleep on the floor and we'll pretend this never happened in the morning," did.

"A generous offer," Athos said, putting down the candle.

"I'm a generous kind of guy," Porthos said. "Although I should warn you, I can be plenty greedy, too, when it's the right time for it."

"Can't we all?"

Porthos chuckled, and Athos felt the bed creak slightly as he sat down on it - he sincerely hoped it wouldn't break or anything; that would be rather awkward and a bit embarrassing to try to explain - and then Porthos put his hands on him, big and warm and sure, and it didn't feel strange or difficult anymore at all, just natural and easy, easy, easy.


End file.
